The Art of Control (16 page)

“Why did you allow your ex-boyfriend
to touch you?” I ask, wanting to hear her reasons before I fully decide on her sentence.

After a long silent minute, and with her head still lower
ed, she speaks. “I enjoyed teasing him.”

“Go on,” I tell her, sensing that she’s holding something back.

“
I relished in his touch and flaunting my married self to him. It was just me wanting my ego stroked,” she whispers, obviously ashamed at her admission.

I’m shocked by her candid admission.
My stroking of her ego and constant lavishing of love and adoration isn’t enough that she needs it from another man? My submission to her isn’t enough that she feels it necessary to flaunt herself in front of an ex-lover? Her words cut me to the bone. She wants another man’s touch, does she? I know how to fix that. I sigh loudly and Isa stiffens up.

“Over my knee.”

Isa picks herself up and moves towards me, never making eye contact. She lowers herself across my knee and I brace her with one of my legs over hers and my arm across her upper back.

“This is for your outburst and your disrespectful sarcasm.”

I lay my hand across her bare buttocks in one swift motion.

“Count it out, Isabel” I tell her, knowing she detests having to do this, but right now I want strict protocol followed. She hesitates for only a moment and I reach back and tug her hair, compelling her to respond.

“One,
” she sulks.

I bring my hand down again.

“Two…”

Again, harder.

“Three…” Isa whimpers.

I give her 20 wallops in all and Isa counts out every last one. Her ass is bright red and heated, and her face matches the same vibrant hue.

“Stand up and face me,” I order.

Isa sniffs back tears and stands in front of me. I guide her by the chin to look into my eyes.

“As for your ego needing to be stroked
by another man, you’ll experience a punishment of a different kind for that.”

***

Isabel

My punishment isn’t over?
Holy spank fest. Why didn’t I just push Anderson’s hand away? Because I enjoyed taunting him, that’s why. I took pleasure in flaunting my unavailability to someone who so miserably hurt me. Yes, I liked his touch, knowing that he wanted me and he couldn’t have me. Now look what it got me. Dylan is obviously hurt by my actions and I can’t blame him. I would be wounded, too, if he had allowed an ex-girlfriend to touch him in such a manner. Maybe if I just try to smooth things over, he’ll forget whatever reprimand he has planned.

“Sugar, I’m sorry…”

“Isabel, don’t. I mean it. Your feminine charms won’t work on me right now. Get dressed while I make a phone call,” he gripes, walking out of the room and into the small living room suite.

A
fter getting my dress on, I mope into the bathroom to make myself presentable. My bottom is blazing and tender. I dig out the PānX cream but decide against using it without Dylan’s permission first.

I carry the tube into the living area and stand before Dylan while he talks on the phone.

“Yes, I would appreciate that a great deal. Definitely. I have every intention of going through with it. No, there won’t be any problems. Isa knows her place and will be fully compliant...”

What on earth is he talking about and to whom?

“Set it up. And again, I’m grateful for your assistance with this matter. What time? Yes, we’ll see you then.”

He hangs up, stands and moves past me without making eye contact or addressing me.

Catching up with him, I stand in front of him again. He looks at me irritably and finally acknowledges my presence.

“What is it, Isabel
?”

He wields my name like a weapon when he’s
cross with me and it’s both fearsome and electrifying.

“May I?” I ask politely, holding the cream out to him.

He raises his eyebro
ws at me ironically and snorts. Then his eyebrows pinch together and he responds, “Do you think you deserve to use that right now?”

Well, I guess I got my answer.

“No, Sir, I guess not.”

“You
guess
not?”

Ugh. I’m in deep doo-doo with Dylan. I hate feeling like an errant child. “No, Sir. I don’t deserve to use it.”

The next few hours are spent being ostracized by the man I cherish and love. I bide my time in the living room, reading the newspaper while he busies himself in the bedroom.

Why did I let that asshole touch me? I’ve hated Anderson since the day he broke up with me. Hell, who am I kidding? I hated him long before that. Damn my ego. Seriously, what the hell is he doin
g here anyway? A training class, my spanked and welted ass. He doesn’t have any kind of formal education so what kind of high-paying job could he procure that would send him to Paris? And that clothing - he’s never dressed so expensively before. Or shown me so much attention either. To hell with this. I’m going crazy thinking about all this nonsense. This is my honeymoon, damn it. I should be getting my vag pounded not my ass punished. Damn alter ego. Damn it to hell.

“Isabel?” Dylan call
s out to me.

I find Dylan
to see what he wants and he looks dazzling. He’s wearing a pitch black, pin-striped Armani suit with a black silk shirt underneath and solid black neck tie. With his dark hair, the only bits of color in his ensemble are his sparkling blue eyes and the dusting of gray hair at his temples. Ms. Kitty aches to be filled seeing him look so impressive.

On the bed,
he’s laid out an outfit for me to wear. It’s not something I recognize and I don’t even remember him packing it for me. It’s a sweet little cornflower blue mini dress with a wide satin ribbon bow around the waist. It’s beautiful and the color matches Dylan’s eyes perfectly.

“Where did this come from?” I timidly ask.

Dylan doesn’t respond and goes about ignoring me.
He really does know how to make me feel his wrath.

He seats himself in the chair near the window and rests his hands on his thighs.

“Dress for me,” he states flatly.

I unclothe myself sl
owly, giving Dylan a show. I notice that he purposely neglected to provide me with panties and a bra. Stepping into the tight dress, I shimmy it up and over my bare bottom, then ease it up further and tuck my breasts in. I pull the thin spaghetti straps over my shoulders and stand in front of Dylan so he can zip the back up. He nonchalantly brushes his fingertips up my spine as he drags the zipper up slowly. My body weakens with his touch and my knees are dangerously close to buckling. I yearn to be in his arms and in his forgiving graces.

I face him and kneel down between his legs, hoping he’
ll allow me to gratify him.

“Please, Sir, may I
?” I ask, stroking him through his pants. His expression remains stoic, but he unbuckles his belt, opens his pants and pulls his dick out.

He’s already mildly rigid and after several long, slow licks, he becomes fully erect. Dylan folds his arms across his chest, continuing to
penalize me by not allowing me the pleasure of his touch. I engulf him, going down his cock inch-by-inch slowly, and drawing my mouth back at the same leisurely pace.

“Are you
intentionally trying to aggravate me?” Dylan asks, his voice deep and harsh.

“No, Sir,” I respond, but the truth is, I want to punish him with my drawn-out oral fucking for ignoring me. I look into his eyes and he has an eyebrow arched at me as if he’s read my deceitful thoughts.

“
Do it the way I like it or don’t do it at all.”

Dylan’s voice and tone are clipped and his eyes are narrowed at me. H
e’s already livid with my juvenile actions from earlier; I sure as hell don’t need to antagonize him any further and inflame the situation, especially not knowing what he has planned for my punishment later.

I immediately pick up the pa
ce and tighten my grip. Moving my mouth up and down his thickness, he shifts in the chair and opens his legs further, a low rumble escaping from his throat as he thrusts into my jaws.  I want to be in his good graces so I fuck him with my mouth like I’m a hooker at a dick sucking contest, vying for the national championship, solid gold cock trophy.

I jerk him hard and fast, nibbling and sucking his sack and lapping at
the precum that has settled on the tip of his shaft. Then I circle my tongue all the way around the ridge of his cock and quickly flick his frenulum. Dylan’s body stiffens when I glide my piercing over the tip and dip my tongue into his hole, and he grunts loudly. Then I do it all over again, this time with even more fervor than before.

I deep throat him, slobbering al
l over myself and his cock. I groan out, really getting into it and deliberately gagging myself. My eyes meet Dylan’s and he looks completely unraveled by my methodical and calculated dick sucking. His arms are no longer crossed, but being the stubborn ass that he is, his hands are in his hair, fisting it, denying me his touch.

I want those damned hands on me. I
need
his hands on me. I lick and suck my index and middle finger, lubricating them well. Without warning, I push them into his rectum gently and seek out his prostate. He jumps in the chair and practically shrieks at the sensation.

“Fucking hell
,” he pants out.

My fingers find what they’re looking for and
I caress it and finger it slowly, not wanting to get kneed in the face. At long last, Dylan’s hands grip my shoulders and the skin-to-skin contact makes my pussy throb. He tangles his fists into my hair with both hands and guides my head up and down, plunging deep into my throat.

“You need
a good face fucking, you little brat,” he grouses irritably and out of breath.

Did he really just call me a
brat
? My feelings are instantly hurt and my ego retreats and weeps in the shadows.
Within the BDSM community, that term is usually applied to a submissive who acts up in order to attract attention and is considered a form of topping from the bottom.
Ugh. Was I was being a brat by allowing another man to touch me? Was I topping from the bottom by teasing Dylan with my slow oral teasing just moments ago? I’ve never thought of myself that way, but, yes, I was being a brat. God, I hate it when he’s so absolutely right.

E
mbarrassed by my failures as a submissive, I allow Dylan the satisfaction of viciously face fucking me and I take it like a champ. Just before he cums, he pulls out, cups a hand and strokes off into his palm, depriving me the gift of his essence. I sit back on my haunches and inwardly sob while he washes his hands in the bathroom.

Remaining on my knees, I wait
for Dylan’s command. He walks past me and into the living area without so much as a word or a glance. He’s never been this mad before.
Never.
I remain on my knees until it is time to leave. Dylan helps me up from the floor and takes my hand out of politeness as we get on the elevator. I squeeze his hand hoping for some sign of my loving and gentle husband but I get nothing in response, only a slight twitch of his mouth. After a short cab ride, we end up back at the BDSM club and I’m left to wonder what kind of retribution Dylan has planned for me. I wouldn’t mind having another go at the bullwhip, but I doubt pleasuring me is what my Dom has in mind.

As soon as we enter the club, we’re greeted by the manager and Luke. Neither of t
hem acknowledges my presence and I can only assume that Dylan has told them of my
bratty
behavior and they’re not pleased with me either.

Dylan walks me over to a staged area where there are three other women. It’s easy to see that one of them is in the same predicament
as I am because she looks as miserable as I feel. The other two, however, look eager and excited about whatever is planned. I sure as hell wish someone would enlighten me about the whole situation.

Dylan steps behind me and starts to unzip my dress and my heart rate spikes. He slips the straps down over my s
houlders and leans into my ear as the dress pools at my feet, leaving me standing completely nude.

“You like being touched by other men? Then tonight I’ll give your
ego
its fill. Tonight you’ll be objectified. Maybe next time a man puts his hands on you, you’ll think twice before you let your
ego
win over reason. Maybe next time you’ll remember your place as my submissive and more importantly, your place as my wife. There’s a fine line between sexual empowerment and objectification, Isabel. I hope tonight you learn what that difference is.”

I want to cry and lash out
. I don’t want to be objectified! Damn my ego! I spin around to face Dylan to try and plead with him. “Dylan, sugar, my sweet lover,
please
…”

He swiftly covers my mouth with his entire hand and grabs my hair at the nap
e of my neck with his other and pulls me close.